As the sun sits low, flaming red but powerless, the frozen sod could be Christmas cake frosting. My breath is visible with each crunching step towards the back fence, checking for damage, and water glistens like diamonds under the ice in the trough as I kick the sides to loosen its grip, gasping in shock when I lift the three inch thick, rectangular block out. Hoof print art in the mud throughout the field, skid marks where something or someone, or maybe nothing at all, caused him to snort and buck and kick his heels as he cantered towards the safety of the gate. My eyes water and I wipe my nose while I stand for a few seconds listening to the silent morning, wiggling my toes to feel less cold. The paddocks are empty now early in the day, save for the dozens of crows aimlessly walking the ground trying to get to tombed worms, or a drop of water that’s still liquid. There is little else I can do until the weather passes, but to enjoy it.
Bio pending.
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